Page 66 of The Orc's Bonded Bride

Ulric raised a hand, silencing him. “I would hear it from her.”

Lyric met the king’s gaze without flinching. “I understand your doubt, Your Majesty. I questioned the vision myself. But Freja showed me your Jessamin surrounded by flames, her golden hair like a beacon in darkness. There was a pendant at her throat—a crescent moon set with sapphires.”

Ulric’s expression shifted subtly. He recognized the look—surprise carefully masked beneath royal composure. The pendant was clearly something personal, something Lyric couldn’t have known.

“She also showed me a secret passage,” Lyric continued. “Behind a tapestry depicting a great hunt. The goddess said, ‘The way out becomes the way in.’”

The king’s massive frame went rigid. His jaw clenched so tightly that Egon could hear the grinding of teeth.

“No one outside the royal family knows of that passage,” Ulric growled.

He felt a surge of pride for Lyric, standing unintimidated before the most powerful orc in Norhaven. She had always possessed a quiet strength that few recognized.

Ulric paced several steps, his brow furrowed in concentration. “If what you say is true, then Jessamin is in immediate danger. But I cannot abandon Norhaven on the eve of Lasseran’s attack.”

The king turned back to them, conflict evident in his eyes. “How can I be certain this isn’t a ploy to draw me away when we’re most vulnerable?”

He stepped forwards, placing himself partially between Lyric and the king. The protective gesture came naturally, though he knew she needed no shield.

“My king,” he said, his voice low but firm. “I’ve served you and Norhaven faithfully. I wouldn’t bring false warnings to your gate.”

Ulric’s eyes narrowed. “Your loyalty isn’t in question, Egon.”

“Then trust my judgment.” He held the king’s gaze, refusing to look away despite the tension crackling between them. “The Old Gods have been silent for generations. If they speak now, through her, we cannot afford to ignore their warning.”

He felt the weight of his own words. He’d spent years dismissing Wulf’s faith in divine intervention, yet here he stood, advocating for a goddess’s vision. The irony wasn’t lost on him, but Lyric’s certainty had become his own.

“You’ve seen what Lasseran is capable of,” he continued. “If he’s found another way to target Jessamin while our attention is divided, we play directly into his hands by hesitating.”

The king’s massive shoulders tensed, his tusks gleaming in the fading light as he worked his jaw in contemplation.

“And what would you have me do? Abandon the Fanged Gate when Lasseran’s forces gather at our borders?”

“Not abandon,” he countered. “Divide our strength strategically. Secure both fronts.”

Ulric turned away, staring out at the distant mountains. He recognized the conflict in the king’s stance—the battle between duty and personal concern.

“Your men can hold the Fanged Gate,” he urged. “But if Jessamin falls because we failed to act on a divine warning…”

He left the thought unfinished, knowing Ulric would follow it to its inevitable conclusion. The political alliance would crumble. The kingdoms would fracture when unity was most needed. But he suspected that the king was concerned about more than just political alliances.

Ulric remained silent for long moments, his broad back to them as he considered. Finally, he turned, his decision etched in the hard lines of his face.

“At dawn,” the king said, the words clearly costing him. “I’ll depart with a small contingent at dawn. Not before. I need tonight to ensure our defenses are prepared.”

He nodded, relief washing through him. “A wise decision, my king.”

CHAPTER 26

Lyric folded the borrowed blanket, her movements mechanical while her mind raced elsewhere. Dawn painted the camp in shades of gray and pink, but the beauty failed to touch her. That gnawing sensation had returned—stronger now, like fingers of ice trailing down her spine.

“You’ve hardly spoken,” Egon said, his voice low as he approached. “What troubles you?”

She looked up at him, at the face that had become her anchor in a storm of uncertainty. The scars that mapped his history no longer seemed foreign—they were simply part of him, as familiar to her now as her own reflection.

“Something’s wrong.” She pressed a hand to her stomach, where the dread had settled like a stone. “I can’t explain it, but since we arrived, it’s gotten worse.”

He crouched beside her, golden eyes searching her face. “Freja again?”

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